~ Text and Images By Torie Olson
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Contd...
As Man Friday to a queen, mother of three, and wife of the Chief of Protocol in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Deki can’t possibly weave all the textiles her family requires. Hand-loomed fabrics are not only for wearing; they’re also a form of currency. Textiles are used to barter, pay taxes, even traded like stocks and bonds. Brocades, checks, wild silks, and/or fine cottons must also be presented in threes or fives at weddings, promotions, funerals, and religious ceremonies. Fabric types and amounts are defined by the importance of the recipients.
To take care of her family’s obligations, Deki has a room of her own on the third floor, and a small, bamboo-sided studio in her garden where two young weavers,Tashi and Leki, produce more of her designs. Bhutan’s royalty and nobility maintain their own weaving houses. They also commission weavings from soldiers’ wives (known for their expertise) and buy others, brought to the capital from the countryside.
After the harvest of rice, maize or millet, farm women devote themselves to their craft. Since it takes about three months to weave most kiras and ghos, they finish just in time for the festival (and tourist) season. Deki adds, “Most of the young ladies here [in the capital] are into careers, so they don’t have time to weave. This is actually good for our rural women because now they have a ready market for their hand-loomed wares.” This enables them to gain economic independence from male family members, and curbs Bhutan’s rural-urban migration, but there’s a downside, too. Knowing they can earn more are weavers than as graduates, too many drop out of school.
A few shops in Thimpu sell weavings off the rack. They are priced like haute couture, affordable only for collectors and Hollywood’s born again Buddhists who have come to see their gurus. (Not to say that Glenn Close is one of those, but I hear through the grapevine that while amusing the royal children as Cruella De Vil, she let out a cackle so devlish, the king’s guards came running.) I continue to see her, here and there, still in pants, although I assume she has tucked a few kiras into her luggage. I am deterred by sticker shock. I can only imagine myself all dressed up. I do have a place to go.
I’ve timed my visit with the tsechus, the annual religious festivals in honor of Guru Rimpoche, the revered teacher who brought Buddhism to Bhutan in 737 A.D. These masked dances are held across the country in the district dzongs, the fortress-like, architectural treasures that house government offices and small monastic communities, and provide a center for communal life.
To enter a dzong, a ceremonial scarf is required. As a sign of respect, the men’s kabney is worn across the chest like a bandoleer. It’s always wild silk, and its color indicates civil service rank and social status. Commoners wear white. Members of government wear orange. The king wears a saffron yellow kabney, and awards the red scarf (like a medal of honor) for dedicated service. Women wear narrower scarves called rechus.
Worn over the left shoulder, they’re often red or green and ornamented with Buddhism’s eight lucky symbols. Most are made of embossed silk, but no silk worms were killed for mine which is gloriously rough, multi-striped, and admired by many.
The first time I wore it, I was held up at the gate while a handsome guard removed it from my shoulder, folded it more neatly, then patted it back in place - over my left breast. After ten days without husband, I didn’t really mind.
Today, I wear it for a culmination ceremony where monks (who have just finished a fourteen day retreat) dance to share their blessings with the world. Outside the dzong, I stand in the women’s queue, waiting to be checked for dress code and frisked for cameras. In front of me are women in weavings to die for, not to mention necklaces of gold, coral, and pearls so heavy, they are ruining posture. Here, they are trying to keep up with Wangchuks, not Joneses. As instructed, I wear a long skirt, long sleeves, and closed-toed shoes, but I see high end, high heeled sandals click past the policemen. The poor are admitted in their flip-flops and faded finery.
Once I get the okay, I try to find space amongst the thousands. Most are crowded onto bamboo mats, rejoicing and picnicking on yak dumplings and Lays potato chips. Perched on windowsills around the courtyard, children command the best view. The second best is smashed against a massive stone wall where, in visual ecstasy, I watch the whirling trance dancers in gorgeous, silk circle skirts, demon appliquéd aprons, cloud collars, and heavy wooden masks.
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